


Raise Not a Fist

by TranquilNormality



Series: Ducktales/Castlevania AU [1]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 1987), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Castlevania Crossover - Freeform, Crossover, Della as Alucard/Adrien Tepes, Della will sometimes be referred to as Alukcud/Alucard, Dhampirs, Eventual Romance, Gen, Gladstone as Trevor Belmont, Grief, Human/Vampire Relationship, Magica as Sypha Belnades, Mourning, Murder, Religious Characters, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Vampires, Witch Hunts, Witchcraft, description of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23124652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TranquilNormality/pseuds/TranquilNormality
Summary: Ducktales / Castlevania CrossoverIn a fit of grief over the death of his husband, Vlad Duckula Tepes has declared war on the human race. A vampire hunter, Gladstone Gander, must team up with a Speaker Magician and the daughter of Duckula.God only knows if they will succeed.
Relationships: Della Duck & Gladstone Gander, Della Duck & Gladstone Gander & Magica de Spell, Della Duck & Magica de Spell, Donald Duck/Original Character(s), Donald Duck/Original Male Character(s), Donald Duck/Vlad Duckula Tepes, Gladstone Gander & Magica de Spell
Series: Ducktales/Castlevania AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662217
Kudos: 10





	Raise Not a Fist

**Author's Note:**

> “Raise not a fist, but a gentle hand, as though awaiting a lover’s own.”
> 
> I am hoping to rewrite all of Castlevania with the cast I’ve chosen. At the time I’ve written this, Castlevania Season 3 has just been released.
> 
> I’m separating it into its seasons, which means that however many episodes a season has, there will be as many chapters. Season 1 only had four episodes and left us on a major cliffhanger, therefore, this story alone will have 4 chapters.
> 
> Without anything further, I hope you enjoy my Alternate Universe. If you’ve any discomfort with any idea presented, please discuss them civilly.

Caws break the silence of days, a murder passing by the sun. A hooded figure stops to stare at them, careful to avoid the large star. They seemed to be on a mission of some sort, trekking through the desert and not even sparing a glance to the burnt bones on sticks that paved their path.

Soon, the castle of legend appeared before them.

They remove their hood to reveal a male duck with bright sky-blue eyes and white feathers. He knocks on the door with the butt of his dagger, the doors soon creaking open.

“Hello?” his voice echoes throughout the empty hall.

Torches adorning the wall light themselves up, amazing the guest. There were many wonders within the legendary castle, yet the duck felt that this was only the surface.

“My name is Donald of Lupu. I want to be a doctor.”

Donald sees the shadow of another duck appear before heading towards the stairs. However, shadows enveloped him and he disappeared before his voice came closer to him.

“You bang on my front door because you want to take flower petals and put them in tea for peasants?” the owner draws out.

Donald scoffs, “Don’t mistake me for a witch. Everyone out _there_ does enough of that.” He tries turning, hearing footsteps circle around him. “I believe in science, but I need to know more. I've used my other options, and all the stories say the man who lives here has secret knowledge, knowledge… lost to time.”

He freezes, feeling a cold presence from behind.

A whisper, “I am Vlad Duckula Tepes… and I do not get many visitors. What have you to trade for my knowledge, Donald of Lupu?”

Instead of fear, as the count was used to, Donald simply stepped back, almost as if he was _annoyed_ by his theatrics.

“I could help you learn some _manners,_ for one.” Vlad’s eyes widen slightly. “I've been in your home for quite some time and you haven't even offered me a drink or to take my coat!”

Vlad takes just a step closer. “What if I took a drink from _you?”_ He laughs softly, “Or have you loaded yourself with crosses, garlic, and _silver_ in superstition?”

At the last item, Donald flushes, taking out an accessory. “I have this silver locket from my late mother. Was it rude to put it on? I can't really afford for it to be stolen…” Vlad circles around him once again, but Donald is determined to get his point across. “I'm not interested in superstition, or being some hack that just sells tea.

“I want to _heal_ others. I want to _learn.”_

Vlad pauses, tilting his head, black hair gently moving over his eye. “You are far different from the mortals I've met in recent times.”

“Maybe I can teach you to like people again? Or, at least, _tolerate_ them… Or stop putting them on sticks.”

Vlad chuckles, walking away, Donald quickly running to follow him. “I gave that up a long time ago.” Deciding to make idle chatter, he asks, “Where _is_ Lupu village?”

The mortal raises a brow. “You don't travel much, do you?”

“I can travel. This entire structure-” Vlad lifts a hand at the walls. “-is a traveling machine.”

“Yet you don't, do you? Maybe you should. The world is changing with each passing day.” Donald smiles. “Travel, like men do! You might like it.”

Vlad stops in front of a door, Donald having to skid down to a halt, (as he was speed walking just to keep up with the taller duck). The vampire smirks, red eyes glittering with mirth as he states, “I've known you two minutes, and you offer for me to walk the earth like an ordinary peasant while I give you the knowledge of immortals.

“The _true_ science.”

Raising a hand, the door opens, and a bright light shines down upon them. Donald sighs in amazement, liquids gurgling and bubbling in glass as thin as paper, and many books adorning the shelves looking new, untouched.

Like an adventure waiting to start.

“They won't be peasants anymore if you teach them,” he looks back at his host, smiling wider. “They won't live such short, scared lives if they have _real_ medicine! They won't be superstitious if they learn how the world _really_ works!”

Vlad enters slowly, following the mortal. “Why should I do that?” He’s genuinely confused. All his life, he's known mortals to be such selfish creatures. What was it about mortals that made his guest so happy?

“To make the world _better._ Start with me-” Donald raises a hand, eyes glittering it happiness. “-and I'll start with you.”

Vlad Duckula Tepes smiles softly, taking the soft hand with his own clawed one.

“I think I'm going to like you, Donald of Lupu.”

  
  
  
  


The night sky held clouded stars, the clouds themselves being of ash and smoke from a large fire just in front of the church. Priests hold their crosses to the fires, ignoring the pain-filled gasps and cries of the duck attached in the centre of the fire.

“Devil engines? In his home, Bishop?” the mayor inquires, stroking his beard as he watched the flames.

“Yes, I saw them with my own eyes. Glass in shapes you've never seen, thin as paper, lightning trapped within a ball, strange weeds and tools. _Witch’s_ tools.” The Bishop sighs, closing his eyes. “Of all the witches I've rooted out, none had such a collection.”

“And it had to come to this?” The mayor took pity on the duck, even if he _was_ a witch. For he had done so much to their small community, and asked for little in return.

The Bishop spits out harshly, “He called it all _science,_ Mayor. Donald Tepes of Lupu was so far gone that he couldn't even see that it was all given to him by _Satan._ ”

A soft and wicked smile crosses his face. “The Archbishop would prefer that life in Wallachia be kept simple, Mayor. Simple, pure, and _good._ ”

Donald screams loudly, the pain increasing and flames finally reaching him. _“Please!_ Don't hurt them! They don't understand!” he shrieks out, hoping his prayer was able to be heard.

The mayor is puzzled, “Who is he talking to?”

“I believe he is exhorting Satan not to take revenge on us, which I suppose is _almost_ commendable… for a _witch.”_ The Bishop closes his eyes, relishing in the warmth of the fire. “Perhaps I'll say a prayer for him. Just a small one.”

Donald almost chokes on the smoke, tears not being able to fall as he cries to the heavens, hoping his love would hear, “I know it's not your fault, but if you can hear me, _please,_ they don't know what they're doing! Be better than them, I beg of you!

His scream echoes throughout the hearts of the citizens, all ignoring it for favour of satisfaction that yet another witch was defeated.

  
  
  
  


Ravens caw as Vlad slowly treks down the path to his home. The vampiric duck sees smoke arise from his destination. Confusion makes him narrow his eyes, footsteps getting more swift. Ravens shriek and fly away from the home.

Fears he wasn't aware of came true; his home was nothing more than ash and embers.

Very soft footsteps don't make him turn, but someone speaks to him as if surprised.

“Are you Mr. Tepes?” an old woman asks, a rustling noise informing Vlad that she had brought… flowers. “He talked about you, you know.”

“What happened? Where is my husband?”

She passes by him to set the flowers down, tears falling. “The Bishop took ‘im. _Witchcraft,_ they said. They're burning him at the stake.” A shaky breath escapes her, “He was good to me, your husband; a _wondrous_ doctor...”

“It's not _right_ what happened!”

“Where are they holding him?” Vlad could care less of her sorrows, wanting his husband back safe and sound. “The cathedral?”

She looks at him, almost shocked at such a proposition. “Ah, no, sir! ‘E’ll be dead by now…” Tears escape from her as she continues, “I don't care _what_ they say, I _won't_ take joy in that soul being _killed_ by the Church. I'm here remembering him, instead.”

A liquid, thick and dark in hue, slowly trickles down Vlad’s face, his breathing becoming erratic. He looks down at his hands, seeing his claws and pale green feathers illuminated by the moonlight. “He said to me, ‘If you would love me as a man, then _live_ as a man. _Travel_ as a man.’”

The elder nods solemnly, “He said you were traveling.”

Hands become clenched, the sharp nails drawing out his blood. “I _was._ The way _men_ do. _Slowly._ No more.”

His magic sparks, lazily circling around his pendent before enveloping his entire being, as if flames themselves had just ignited. The old woman tries to scurry back, Vlad turning very slowly to look at her slowly retreating form.

“I do this last act of kindness in his name, he, who loved you _mortals_ and cared for your ills.” He takes a step forward, and she, a step back. “Take your family and leave Wallachia _tonight._ Do _not_ look back; for no more do I travel… _as a man.”_

The woman cries, and Vlad disappears like smoke. She runs as fast as her body can, not noticing the flowers turning into ash like the surrounding home.

  
  
  
  


A duck's skeleton remains on the post, the skull slowly dropping. The flames remain, but the crowd slowly cheers, the Bishop and mayor turning to leave.

“Quite a show,” the Bishop comments.

“Drinks?”

The Bishop raises a hand and shakes his head, “I should minister to the Archbishop. I fear he's not long for this world.”

The mayor gives a noise of grievance. “Off to heaven with him, eh? I suppose that's the ultimate goal for you priests, serving God in His true house and all that.”

“It holds little appeal for me, to be honest,” the Bishop walks away, eyes narrowed.

“Really, now?”

“There's so much left to be done on _Earth._ Wallachia could be God's own country had I but time to burn out _all_ the _evil_ that hides here.”

A sudden explosion makes them both turn around quickly, the flames dangerously getting higher. Citizens scream as they see a shape slowly form.

A skull.

**_“What have you done?”_ ** it commands in a booming voice.

The mayor shakes, pointing, _“Satan!”_

The skull shifts to a duck’s face, eyes narrowed and voice loud and menacing. **_“What have you done to my husband?”_ **

_“In nomine Patris et Filii–“_ The Bishop raises a cross.

**_“I am Vlad Duckula Tepes, and you will tell me why this_ ** **thing** **_has happened to my husband.”_ **

“Oh, God! Duckula! He was supposed to be a myth; a story made up by heretics!”

The Bishop ignores the babbling of the fool, instead focusing on the vampire. “He-... He’s a _witch!”_

Duckula growls out, **_“Donald Tepes was a man of science, and the one thing that justified humanity's stench upon this planet!”_ **

_“You_ are not real! You are a fiction that justified the practice of _black magic!”_

**“A fiction!”** The flames shift back into the skull. **_“You take my love and deny I even_** **exist!”**

Duckula’s face reamerges with a fierce glare and an even harsher tone, **_“I give you one year, Wallachians. One year to make your peace and remove any marks you have made upon the land. One year, and then I'll wipe all human life from the land of Wallachia._ **

**_“You took that which I love, so I will take from you everything you have and everything you have ever been. One year.”_ **

Men and women shriek and run for their lives, all the while, the Bishop narrowing his eyes to slowly walk out.

  
  
  
  


Glass shards separate and make a whistling noise as they scatter. Vlad slowly walks to a book, tracing the page before ripping the page out, shattering the glass vials beside it and destroying the wooden table in his rage. The shards show only his reflection as they spin in a small tornado above the large pit, scattering into window pieces.

Vlad roars, _“One_ year! It will take me _one_ year to summon an army from the _guts_ of Hell itself!”

Heavy doors open behind him, a heavenly glow illuminating the dark room that Duckula resided in. The silhouette of a small, cloaked figure emerges within, making Vlad turn with narrowed and small, rage-encompassed eyes.

_“No,”_ a woman speaks clearly.

  
Duckula turns fully, snarling out, “What do you mean, _‘no?’_ That man was the _only_ reason on Earth for me to _tolerate_ mortal life!”

“Then find the one who did the deed!” she yells, eyes narrowing. Stepping closer, Vlad is able to see her narrowed eyes glossy with unshed tears. “If you lose an army of the night on Wallachia, you cannot undo it, and many thousands of people just as innocent as him will suffer and die.”

_“There ARE no innocents!”_ Vlad roars. “Not anymore! Any one of them could have stood up and said, ‘No, we won't behave like _animals_ anymore.’”

She stays silent for just a moment before shifting in stance. “I won't let you do it. I grieve with you, but I _won't_ let you commit genocide.”

Duckula scoffs. “I _will_ have my revenge, Thelma. Against both the mortals and _God, Himself.”_

The shrill whistle of the mirror shards is the only noise from then on.

  
  
  
  


A choir vocalizes as the Archbishop is brought out by four men of God, setting him down on a pedestal at the foot of the cathedral. They slowly die out as he raises a wrinkled hand, his ears dropping low.

“For twenty years have I served you and God as the Archbishop to Targoviste Cathedral. Yet never before have I felt the love of _God_ shine so upon this great city!

“A little more than one year ago, many of us suffered a vision during the God-willed punishment of a _witch_ in our midst! The devil himself came to us and threatened us with doom in one year.

“And yet, here we are.” He swats a hand, “The devil lied. Why _should_ we be surprised? Do we not know the devil for a liar? Do we not know his works to be illusion? Of _course_ we do!”

The sky slowly turns a deep red, dark clouds following behind it. People point and murmur within themselves, hearing thunder.

The Archbishop gestures at himself with both hands, “Illusions and falsehoods hold no fear for us, for we are the righteous of Targoviste, living as if cradled in the love of _God!”_

A sudden droplet falls onto his hand, and he looks down. It was red, warm, and quite heavier than normal rainwater. More soon fall from the skies, heavier and heavier. People shriek as heavy objects fall from the sky, looking like babies with unholy wings.

Rainfall soon becomes far too heavy, loud creaking coming from the cathedral behind them. Soon, it broke, windows shattering and piercing the chests of the men and women standing before it, _including_ the Archbishop.

The dark clouds smell like smoke, and somehow, a flame erupts from its centre, soon slowly reaching down to face the gathered people of Wallachia.

_“One year,”_ the familiar voice from that fateful day, yes, exactly one year ago, strikes fear in everyone’s hearts. Vlad Duckula was not a man to go against his word, after all.

_“I gave you one year to make your peace with your God. And what do you do?_ Celebrate _the day you killed my husband. One year I gave you, while I assembled my armies. And now I bring your death. You had your chance.”_

The flames disappear, and are replaced with unholy demons swarming down. One lands in front of a woman before rearing back its claws to rip apart her torso, using her entrails to decorate the pavement below. Before anyone knew it, demons were ripping apart the citizens, dogs, ducks, and cats screaming loudly trying to run away.

The demon swarm above flies fast, and within it comes the shape of Vlad Duckula once again.

**_“Kill everything you see,”_ ** he commands, **“Kill them all. And once Targoviste has been made into a graveyard for my love, go forth into the country! Go now. Go to all the cities of Wallachia: Arges! Severin! Gresit! Chilia! Enisara!**

**“Go now and kill! Kill for my love! Kill for the only true love I ever knew.”**

His voice becomes more icy, _“Kill for the endless lifetime of hate before me.”_

And with that, his face disappears, as does what little self-restraint the demons held.

  
  
  
  


“So I says to him,” a drunken dog slurs his words as he speaks loudly to his companion, “‘It's my goat. I been tending goats since I was four years old.’”

“Right, right,” the other nods.

“‘And I'd know if my goat was in love with you.’”

“For God's sake!”

The barkeeper cleans out a few glasses, the almost empty bar echoing the two’s voices. A lone duck, clad in a very thick coat, drinks his ale silently, listening in to the conversation unwillingly.

“He says to me, ‘I know your goat's in love with me.’”

“So, you said how, Bosha?”

Bosha slams his hand down, “So I says how! An’ he says, ‘Well, she fucks me, don't she?’”

The taller nods in complete understanding. “And that's when you hit him.”

“Right across the eyes with a shovel!” He downs his drink, sighing, “And now, the headman says I have to pay the bastard money because he went blind.”

“Not fair.”

“So I says to him, ‘You didn't think he was gonna go blind fucking a goat with mange?’”

Kob shakes his head, raising a glass, “That would have been your fault, too.”

“I would have gotten blamed for that, too,” Bosha repeats. “But what am I supposed to do when I find my goat laying on its side in the field, fucked within an inch of its life and a naked man with blood and straw all over his peck?”

The taller one gives a lazy smirk, “Hit him with a shovel!”

“Fucking right I hit him with a shovel! More ale for me and my cousin Kob!” he commands the barkeep.

_“Brother.”_

Bosha narrows his eyes. “Look, we might have had the same father, but you came out of my aunt. Don't make me get my shovel.”

“Anyone else while I'm pouring?” the barkeeper calls.

Gladstone raises his own glass, “One over here!” He peers back into the object, seeing just a few droplets left. The gander’s head suddenly shoots up as the door slams open.

“Ale! For Christ's sake!” a small duck runs in, stumbling towards the bar.

“Piter!” Bosha calls happily. “We was just wondering if you'd spotted any attractive sheep on your ride out.”

Kob tilts his head. “What's the word, mate?

Piter grabs the full cup and greedily gulps it down, not even pausing for a brief moment and panting afterwards.

“The horde's been seen, sweeping west!

“Shit,” the fatter of the trio exclaims. You think they'll reach us?

“I think they might pass us by, I don't know,” Piter admits. “I hope so, at least!” The cup is refilled. “I'm told they're closing on Gresit.”

“Serves 'em right,” Kob idly comments.

Bosha nods in drunken wisdom. “Stuck-up bastards.”

“Ah, come on,” the barkeep tries to reason.

“No… No, it all comes down to the families and the houses, don’t it? The great houses of Gresit.” He hawks and spits on the floor, “Vlad Duckula? An old family. The capital? All run by the great houses.

“And they're not even the worst. The _Ganders?”_

Gladstone’s head perks up slightly, eyes narrowing as he looks over to the four conversing men.

“We should have _killed_ all the Ganders.”

“...Shit,” the goose mutters.


End file.
